Chapter 261 - Striking Softly Doesn’t Turn a Blade into Cotton

261. Striking Softly Doesn't Turn a Blade into Cotton

"Did you enjoy your time as a recruitment officer? Found anyone promising?"

At the familiar question from his old friend, the rapier swordsman nodded.

"There was one."

"...Really?"

It wasn't like him to make such a comment lightly.

The last person this friend had ever described as "promising" had been an exceptional talent, even among prodigies.

In an empire teeming with geniuses, those who received this man's recognition were rare indeed.

And now he spoke so casually? How could that not spark interest?

Hadn't he said he'd been wandering the kingdom's territories on the continent?

For the man before him, this recruitment assignment had been a sort of vacation.

Given his workaholic tendencies, it was a rare break from his usual duties.

Yet, for him to say something like this during a so-called vacation was highly unusual—and unexpected.

It was not the sort of response one would expect to a casual jest.

Inside the keep of the empire's border territory, the two sat in a small room. A round table and a few chairs lined with woolen cushions were all it held.

One was the lord of the territory, the other a training officer just returned from his leave.

The rapier swordsman recounted what he had seen and felt, speaking plainly.

Even as he described the facts calmly, there was a spark of heat in his eyes.

The lord thought it resembled a quiet but impassioned speech.

"So, you're saying this talented guy of yours repelled pressure that should've overwhelmed him?"

The rapier swordsman relayed only the facts, leaving out how shocked he'd been, how he'd stood in the rain for half a day murmuring, "Huh?"

"A curious one, indeed."

The commander of the border keep stroked his chin and downed the whiskey before him.

It was a potent liquor called "Farmer's Tears."

The liquid burned its way down his throat, asserting its presence, and warmed his stomach as it settled.

"Is he one of those capable Frogs?"

"Capable Frogs" was slang for Frogs hired by the empire, referring to those who could survive on their own while fulfilling their roles.

It was a way of gauging someone's competence.

"Frog, huh."

The rapier swordsman twirled his glass in his hand, dismissing the notion without a second thought.

"Not even close."

Was he saying this person wasn't at a Frog's level? Or that a Frog couldn't compare to him? Naturally, it was the latter.

The lord understood that much.

Was his mastery of Will special? Yes.

But there was more to it—peculiarities that couldn't be captured in mere words.

"Even his swordsmanship."

It had progressed absurdly, changed, grown, evolved.

And all in an instant, witnessed with his own eyes.

If someone had told him about it, he wouldn't have believed it, even under threat of death.

"It's easier to think I was duped by some magic."

As for Frogs wandering the fringes of the empire?

"How many exchanges could they last?"

They wouldn't stand a chance. That was the level Enkrid had reached.

The rapier swordsman held his glass up to the lamplight.

The amber liquid within had undergone a long and arduous process to be created, earning its name, Farmer's Tears.

It symbolized the grueling effort required to produce it.

For ordinary soldiers, squires, or junior knights, such effort was necessary.

"Time, effort, tempering."

As a training officer, he could vividly picture that process, as clear as if it were before his eyes.

He was known among Frogs as a talent evaluator, renowned for his discerning eye.

And with that same eye, he'd looked at Enkrid.

Effort was evident, but it defied logic.

Time was supposed to be equal for everyone.

Thus, talent was the deciding factor.

Given the same day and the same training, it was only right to foster the one with greater talent.

So, what was this man, Enkrid?

He was something beyond common sense, a being of explosive, inexplicable talent.

This was his conclusion.

"If not that, then perhaps he entered another world where he trained for years by repeating the same day over and over, only to return."

He chuckled.

It was such an absurd thought, dismissed as nonsense.

It was easy to say, "Repeat a single day to hone your skills." Spoken aloud, it seemed simple—almost effortless.

But who could endure such a process?

He had seen countless talents and helped shape them.

No one, he thought, could withstand such a relentless cycle.

And if someone could?

"If such a person existed…"

Whether it was the empire or elsewhere, he would want to nurture such resolve and watch it blossom.

Such a talent was worthy of desire.

Once, in an academic paper written within the empire, he had posed the question: "What is the greatest talent?"

The liquor in his swirling glass continued to catch the lamplight, shimmering faintly.

As he emptied the glass into his mouth, he clarified his thoughts.

"The greatest talent is the ability to remain unbroken, to always look forward no matter the circumstances."

An unyielding spirit.

That was his conclusion.

Of course, without physical aptitude to support it, such a spirit would simply burn out.

How many such individuals had he tried to train before?

Judging their disposition and nature, he had attempted to force talent upon them. Such attempts were countless.

All of them had failed.

For a talent to explode into growth, whether through the intervention of a demon's curse or a goddess of fortune, it required some element of the mystical.

If such a person existed—one who could endure something as torturous as that, whether by innate or acquired willpower, and ascend to the rank of a knight—

"It would be the birth of a monster."

The rapier swordsman pictured a face in his mind as this thought crossed his mind.

Black hair, blue eyes.

A rare appearance, and one not easily forgotten.

***

"I'm looking for someone," said Enkrid, responding to the fairy Company Commander. Beside him, Gilpin stood, sweating profusely, his face drenched.

Though clearly nervous, Gilpin didn't interrupt, instead casting glances between Enkrid and the fairy Commander.

"I see," the fairy Company Commander nodded, standing firm as if prepared to follow Enkrid anywhere.

Should Enkrid refuse? There was no need for that, so he let it be.

Enkrid turned to Gilpin.

Wearing a coif made of fur, Gilpin was soaked in sweat. His flushed face and heaving chest attested to the effort it had taken to get there.

"Huff, please help us," Gilpin said, his words pleading.

At that moment, Enkrid's mind drifted unexpectedly to the name of the Frog he had encountered at the Border Guard.

He hadn't forgotten that name. The Frog had promised to return, and Frogs kept their word.

"Maelon?"

The thought bypassed his brain and slipped straight out of his mouth.

Gilpin's eyes widened in shock, his pupils dilating. He was clearly astonished.

"...How did you know? The Guildmaster has been captured. Again."

The way he emphasized "again" was telling.

Officially, the bald man in the coif before him was the Guildmaster of the Gilpin Guild. But to its members, Krais was their true leader.

The Gilpin Guild had begun as a gang of illiterate thugs, forming a criminal organization.

Though its nature had shifted somewhat over time, its original character hadn't completely disappeared.

To them, the leader was the Guildmaster—in this case, Krais.

And above that Guildmaster stood Enkrid.

"When it's dangerous, just run and call for him. Say 'Commander Enkrid.' Don't forget the name. If you meet him in the market, lower your gaze immediately. And if you see a gray-haired savage with him, just flee. If you lock eyes with him, run."

Krais had emphasized this so thoroughly that every member of the Gilpin Guild knew Enkrid's name and face.

That included Rem and others as well.

They had repeatedly been told to avoid provoking him at all costs.

And Gilpin had witnessed Enkrid in action.

When trouble arose, it was only natural for him to seek Enkrid out.

"Let's go."

Enkrid spoke and began walking without hesitation.

"Wearing armor, carrying weapons—it's all part of training."

That had been advice he'd received during his first days as a mercenary.

Enkrid had taken it to heart.

Because he had been inexperienced with weapons, he had followed that advice diligently.

Even now, it remained a habit.

He was dressed in a coat of beast-hide under-armor and bandages wrapped around his body. On his left hip hung the cursed sword Tutor, and on his right, a gladius gifted by a dwarf.

A knife sheath strapped to his chest carried five throwing knives.

Unable to procure a Whistle Dagger, its specialized sheath was left in his quarters.

Add a gambeson, chainmail, and helmet to this, and he would have been fully equipped.

Even so, he was adequately prepared as he was.

"Ah, are you heading out?"

A soldier guarding the barracks asked. Enkrid replied, walking at a steady pace.

"Just stepping out for a stroll."

"So am I," said the fairy Company Commander, falling into step beside him. With a straight face, the fairy added a characteristically dry joke.

"Spending time together builds bonds, or so I've heard. Didn't you know?"

"Is that so?"

"Some washerwoman told me while drawing bathwater. Seemed like sound advice. So I think we should spend more time together."

A joke at a time like this?

Enkrid replied casually.

"If you're suggesting we train together, that's fine."

If it were an ordinary woman, she might have kicked him in the shins.

Suggesting training when asked to spend time together? Not a meal, a sunset, or whispered words of affection?

But Shinar was neither an ordinary woman nor even human.

As they walked, the fairy spoke.

"That wouldn't be bad, but what about visiting the market? The Border Guard market has some intriguing new arrivals lately—though it's also brought its share of problems."

It hadn't been even a month since they'd left their territory.

How much trouble could arise in that short time?

Thinking about it, Enkrid and the fairy continued walking, while Gilpin trailed behind, wondering, What useless nonsense are these two talking about?

What were they planning to do about the Frog?

Even as such thoughts filled his mind, he struggled to keep up with their pace, nearly jogging while they seemed to walk effortlessly.

Why are they so fast when they're just walking?

Just as Gilpin hurried to catch up—

"You said it was a Frog?" Enkrid asked.

"Huff… Yes, that guy from last time. Huff, huff. The one with the white scar on his neck," Gilpin replied, panting heavily. He raised his hand to touch the skin on the right side of his neck as he spoke.

It was the same Frog who had come to collect payment from the Gilpin Guild.

Enkrid hadn't forgotten the name.

Back then, they had barely managed to drive him away.

And now?

"There!"

Gilpin pointed. The situation was almost comical.

The same place, the same circumstances.

Should Krais be called an idiot for getting caught again?

Enkrid instinctively understood.

Inside the mansion, past the corridor, there was a single door blocking the way.

Had the Frog learned something from their previous encounter?

The door was wide open this time.

Last time, he had kicked the door open and thrown a Whistle Dagger right away.

Pushing aside overlapping memories, Enkrid raised his left hand, palm facing forward, and spoke.

"How have you been?"

It was a greeting.

Sitting inside the hall on a chair, with Krais beside him, was the Frog, Maelon.

"Fuck, do you think we're friends? Happy to see me after all this time?"

Maelon greeted him in turn, though his tone lacked the warmth of Enkrid's.

Enkrid, for his part, was eager to showcase the difference between them, especially after their previous fight.

And there was no reason to prolong the encounter.

As soon as Maelon opened his mouth, Enkrid had already launched forward. The sound of his foot slamming against the ground echoed behind him.

Despite Enkrid's terrifying speed, Maelon didn't flinch.

This guy excelled at creating unpredictability and chaos in battle.

He'd experienced that firsthand before.

Before even finishing his sentence, Maelon had drawn his loop sword, hooking his hand through the ring and swinging its thick blade downward.

The blade came down with the strength of a Frog's formidable power.

Enkrid responded by drawing his own sword. From his left hip, the blade flashed upward, meeting the silvery loop sword mid-swing.

Clang-clang-clang!

A strange noise reverberated.

Maelon intended to press his blade down with brute force, then crush Enkrid's head with his fist.

But he never got the chance.

His descending blade veered off course, as if something had pulled it aside.

What the fuck?

The curse escaped his lips as the tip of Enkrid's sword, now like a snake, shot towards him.

In the next moment, a blade of blue steel grazed Maelon's eye.

"Argh!"

The Frog screamed.

Enkrid watched as the Frog, struck in the eye, rolled backward. He shook his sword in the air, flicking off the blood.

Drops of Frog blood splattered onto the floor.

With a single strike, Enkrid had demonstrated the overwhelming difference between them.

More importantly, it was the first time he'd used a new sword technique in live combat.

It works.

A surge of exhilaration and joy filled him.

Raising his sword again, Enkrid thought to himself as he refined his Soft Blade Style.

"Just because you strike softly doesn't mean a blade turns into cotton."

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TL here! Thank you for reading!

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